


Let Me Hurt You (Remastered)

by mushroomnoodles



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Cutting, Depression, Dom!Patrick, Dom/sub, Light Bondage, M/M, Masochism, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Rough Sex, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sub!Pete, self-deprecating thoughts, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5009983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomnoodles/pseuds/mushroomnoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick finds out Pete cuts himself. Pete is actually miserable and Patrick just wants to help him. His idea just might work...</p><p>Finally in third person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Hurt You (Remastered)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I don't know if any of you remembers my story 'Let Me Hurt You'; I think it didn't get much feedback because I used a first person narrator. Since I was kinda happy with how that story turned out (just like I'm happy with everything Dom!Patrick), I wanted to give it a second chance and publish a new version of it, written in better English and in third person. Hope you like this better!
> 
> If you're easily triggered, don't read this.

Not all nights were unbearable. Sometimes, listening to music with Patrick was enough to make Pete forget about the heavy void in his chest, the shapeless and pitch-black mass that took his heart hostage and gave him palpitations. Sometimes he would just focus on work. Other times he would take a couple pills more than prescribed.

He usually succeeded in finding something to distract him from himself, to make him forget about that part of him that characterized him the most, the one that destroyed him on a regular basis.

That evening, however, was one of those evenings where nothing seemed to work: so he just stopped trying to annihilate the sick, rotten, dirty part of him and went back to his self-destruction tantrum, trying to hit himself in the core. He wasn’t trying to kill himself, he only wanted to make himself numb to sensations, all of them; even though he was never sure whether it was better to feel nothing at all or just drown yourself in your own familiar and ineradicable pain.

That night, Pete decided to proceed because it felt right. He took one of his razors, disassembled it, and a blade, bright and sharp, reflected the artificial light of the toilette; the bathroom door was closed, Patrick was playing guitar in the living room, and Pete was unstoppable. He started from his left wrist: a little horizontal cut just under his palm, nothing too dramatic. Little red drops started to form along the line he had just drawn, they multiplied and some of them were smaller, more timid than others – but the blood didn’t fall down, the drops didn’t break. His forearm was still immaculate.

Before Pete could carve myself again, he heard knocks on the bathroom door. He hadn’t locked it, and he didn’t know why. It could be because he wanted Patrick to notice, maybe; maybe he just wanted him to come and get him out of there and hug him, touch him and tell him everything was going to be all right. He wouldn’t have believed him anyway.

He suddenly regretted not locking the door. He needed some more time to admire his crimson tears. Perhaps he could free more of them, and then…

“Pete!” Patrick knocked again, more forcefully this time. “Pete!”

Pete wasn’t ready. Patrick didn’t deserve to see him in this state. 

Pete was trembling; panic took over every fiber of his body, it paralyzed him. His hands were cold, sweaty, and his heart was in his throat, strangling his vocal cords and making it hard for him to breathe.

Patrick tried to lower the handle of the door; sure, he didn’t expect it to open on the first try.

Pete stayed still, blood on his wrist, blade in his hand.

Patrick’s skin was  _white_ , eyes wide and fixed on Pete’s left wrist. Pete brought it behind his back as soon as he noticed Patrick’s gaze; he didn’t know what gave him the strength to do it, nor what he believed he could achieve by doing so. Patrick had caught him in the act. There was nothing to hide now.

Pete was ready to take all the insults Patrick wanted to launch at him; he’d fucked up, and, knowing Patrick, angry and frustrated howls were about to come. Pete’s heart could feel them already, it beat so hard his sternum hurt.

But Patrick didn’t say anything. All he did was close his eyes, inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth; then he turned around and shut the door behind him. Pete knew by then that the times he fucked up the most, were the ones where Patrick didn’t shout, but just went away and left Pete all alone with such a cruelty and coldness and resentment - and Patrick sure as hell wasn’t known for this kind of behavior.

Then realization hit Pete: it was over. Everything would change; his relationship with pain, his relationship with Patrick – his only source of joy, his best friend, his love. Sure enough, he could say goodbye to what had always been there between them – a connection based on honesty, fidelity, respect and a huge mutual admiration. That connection was now broken – Pete had just broken it. Not that Patrick deserved to be dragged in his spiral of hatred and death. Pete had never been worthy of him.

He collapsed on the floor and tears defaced his face, scratching it; crying made him ugly and, in his opinion, whenever he cried his appearance suited his filthy soul perfectly. It was just right, but now nothing felt right, and he needed to cut every centimeter of his skin so badly, he needed to burn himself with the flat iron until he had sores and bladders all over himself. He wanted every fucking milligram of dirt out of his body, and the only way he knew was to cast all his anger towards the only proper target, himself.

Actually, he couldn’t find the strength to do anything, so he just stayed there, crouched on the floor, smaller than he’d ever felt in his entire life. All he had left was his eyes to cry, and when even his tears had finished, he fell asleep, his head heavy and aching.

When he woke up, the ache in his head had faded, but everything else was as miserable as before. Pete thanked God he hadn’t dreamt, at least – a nightmare wasn’t exactly what he needed right now.

He got up, staggering, and he almost hit the toilet with his head. When he got to his feet, he gazed at himself in the mirror: what he saw in his own eyes, in the dark rings around them, frightened him for a second and brought back all the sadness of the past few hours. He knew it wasn’t something he could handle by himself, that it wasn’t a life worth living. He shifted his gaze to his wrist: the blood hadn’t dried completely yet, and when he touched his cut with two fingers, more blood came out, provoking a sick pleasure in him, an instant of relief. He was so desperate for it, and it was  _so unfair_  that it was wrong, that Patrick believed he was a monster, a psycho because of it. Pete hated that he loved self-destruction, because he loved Patrick more than anything in this world.

He dragged his feet out of the bathroom, and found Patrick with his guitar on his lap again. He put it away when he saw Pete and motioned him to sit on their bed with him. Patrick’s face radiated calm and patience; he was almost smiling.

Pete felt relieved.

Patrick spoke with a voice so controlled it sounded unnatural in a situation like this.

“Pete, listen, when you feel  _like this_ , just call me, tell me, and we’ll search for a solution together.”

Well, that was a bad start. 

No. No, Patrick didn’t understand, and - thank god, he couldn’t understand. They couldn’t just ‘search for a solution together,’ when Pete wanted to hurt himself there was nothing that could make him change his mind, nothing could have satisfied his needs just as much. It was a physical and psychic  _need_  and it was  _all his_ , Patrick couldn’t just come and  _demand_  to take away from him the only thing that worked when all else failed and – 

 

“I know you aren’t ready to stop hurting yourself. I mean, I can imagine (‘ _it’s written all over my face_ ,’ Pete thought with a hint of bitterness), and I’m not asking you this. But we could talk about it,” Patrick half-grimaced when he saw Pete’s eyes get wider, terrified. “No, okay. We could… what about I’ll let you do it in a safer way?”

He was waiting for an answer, but Pete was confused, scared, and Patrick seemed willing to help him so maybe he didn’t hate him that much but Pete wasn’t ready for it – he wasn’t ready to lose him, to lose his cuts…

“I mean – what if  _I_  hurt you? Just so I can make sure you don’t kill yourself, you don’t – overdo… I just don’t want you to lose blood in vain.”

This last sentence caught Pete’s attention, even though he still believed they couldn’t find a meeting point.

“I don’t understand.” It was the first sentence Pete said that night. His voice was broken. 

Patrick… blushed?

“I don’t really know how – uhm. How self-harm works… what you look for in it exactly. Oh my God, I may be about to say the biggest bullshit ever and you’re gonna think I’m crazy but…”

“Patrick?”

Patrick sighed and looked Pete in the eye. Some quiet moments passed by before he spoke again.

“If we – like. Did some violent, extreme sex. If you let me do  _anything_  to your body, I could hurt you… I’d be totally fine with it, you know, it’s one of my kinks. You should just lay there and let me do all the work… do you think you’d get the same rush you get when you cut yourself?” He paused, probably waiting for Pete to answer, to comment. Actually, Pete just thought he had gone insane that it was all a dream. “Okay, right, that was straight bullshit right there. Forget it.”

His face got even redder and his eyes were now staring at the pillow next to Pete’s leg.

Before he could add anything, the older spoke.

“Actually, Patrick, I… I don’t know. It’s not something I, uh, have ever considered before. It kinda makes sense, though.”

Pete wasn’t sure those words were exactly what he wanted to say. Should he stop cutting so that his body would only suffer when it was abused in bed? Was it even worth it?

“So… you don’t think it’s stupid? Do you wanna try? If it doesn’t work… well, I guess we’ll see then.”

“Actually, yes, I do think it’s stupid. Like, very stupid. But we can give it a try. I have nothing to lose.”

They were both serious, too serious, given the absurdity of the whole situation. Who knows, maybe deep inside they hoped it would work for real. Anyway, Pete wanted to set the record straight.

“Listen. We’ll give it a try only once. If it doesn’t work, you won’t just ask me not to go back to my old habits. Be aware of this. I don’t mean to hurt you, I just want to warn you – make you understand it’s much harder than you think…” his voice broke on the last word.

“Pete, I’m not stupid,” Patrick’s hand reached for his face and stroked his cheek, “I can sense your pain. I can’t feel it, but I know it’s there, and I can see how it haunts you. I don’t underestimate it and that’s why I’ll do my best to always be next to you. This is just our first attempt, there will be many more until we find the right way to deal with this. We’ll fall, we’ll get up again, but it’s gonna be me and you, always.”

Pete put his hand on Patrick’s and looked him in the eye, returning his glance. It was the most beautiful thing Patrick could have said to him. Sure, he felt guilty, because he didn’t want to drag Patrick to hell with him; but he was grateful to have someone like him by his side. Patrick probably heard Pete’s thoughts. 

“It isn’t your fault. When I told you ‘I love you’ for the first time, I vowed I would always take care of you, love you and treat you like you were the most precious thing on earth. It was my choice. I want to be with you and I want you to be serene. That’s all.”

Pete’s heart shattered. 

“So,” he continued, “next time you feel the urge to hurt yourself, come to me, okay? We’ll try this out.”

Pete tightened his lips. Patrick Stump was too much for him and Pete should just let him live his life in peace: he had suffered because of Pete, so he had to punish himself. 

Consequently, he decided it was time to try. “Now.”

“N – now? You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Pete wasted no time. He stretched out and gave Patrick an aggressive kiss, but then he relaxed, let Patrick lead the kiss and, accordingly, everything else. It was _so nice_ to just let Patrick spoil him, let his tongue reach his tonsils while his barely touched Patrick’s, all shy and going with the flow. 

Patrick pushed Pete back on the bed and he got on top of him, his lips never leaving Pete’s. The singer grabbed his wrists – and Pete gasped, because it burned – and clenched them together in his right hand, pressed against the pillow above Pete’s head. He could not move, just abandon himself. 

Patrick rubbed his lips on Pete’s cheek, gently, up to his earlobe; he started sucking at it. He left a trail of kisses running down the bassist’s neck, lingered on his carotid, and down on his collarbones. He bit them and Pete closed his eyes.

“Ready?”

Pete nodded.

Patrick let go of his wrists and got up; Pete’s body was all alone now and he missed the sweet warmth of Patrick on him already. Pete moaned to let him know, but Patrick ignored him, and kept on rummaging in a drawer of their closet.

When he came back, Pete recognized a bottle of lube, a vibrator and a whip in his hands. He vaguely remembered the whip, it was his before he and Patrick started dating, but he had never used it.

“We don’t have the… right toys for this kind of stuff. We should buy more, just in case,” Patrick told him while examining the vibrator. He then put it on the bed next to Pete’s feet – and he instinctively withdrew them. Patrick’s eyes were looking at every centimeter of him, from his feet to his legs, from his hips to his chest to his face. His gaze was ravenous and wild, so strange on Patrick; usually, Pete was the one who ran their games.  _Pete_  used to take care of Patrick,  _Pete_  used to command,  _Pete_  was the confident one. Every time they made love, a dreamy expression was on Patrick’s face, so shy, so timid, so submissive. That Patrick wasn’t here, tonight, and in his place there was a dominant one, an alpha dog, that was devouring Pete with his eyes and that was doing all of this for him. Pete’s dick awakened at the thought.

“Take your shirt off,” Patrick ordered, his voice hard and authoritarian. He did the same, and it felt weird, because it was always so difficult to get him to take his own shirt off. His skin was white and smooth; it looked like it could break at the smallest impact, like real porcelain. His pink nipples were a splash of color on his pale chest, and he was gorgeous, really, he looked like a painting. Pete whimpered before such beauty. 

Patrick leaned in and slapped him.

“First rule: you mustn’t make any sounds and you mustn’t talk unless I say so.” He caressed Pete’s aching cheek, and, still on top of him, he pulled down Pete’s pants and boxers at once. He gazed down at him for several moments, and Pete felt vulnerable, naked and exposed with an obvious erection between his thighs. “Get it?”

Pete nodded.

“Good boy…” Patrick said while taking his own pants off, his great hard dick in the air, and oh god - Pete wanted it inside of him  _now_.

He held back a moan when Patrick grabbed his own t-shirt; he thought the younger boy wanted to put it on again for a moment, but then Patrick grabbed Pete’s head by his hair and pulled it up. He wrapped his t-shirt around Pete’s head, blindfolding him. He pushed him down again, back against warm sheets.

Patrick was no longer in sight. Pete could not know his position, nor foresee his next move, if not by following his breath or his weight shifting on the bed. Pete could feel his hands on his own nipple; Patrick tightened it between his forefinger and his thumb, and then bit hard. Pete bit on his bottom lip not to scream. It hurt, _fuck_. Patrick knew it was a very sensitive spot of his. But then again, Pete got a very good endorphin rush.

He could no longer sense Patrick’s presence on his chest; now his fingernails were running through Pete’s abs, certainly leaving red scratches on them. He licked at those scratches and they burnt at the contact with his saliva. Pete sighed quietly: the pain in his soul seemed to relieve.

Patrick tightened his hands on Pete’s hips, his fingers pressed on Pete’s skin so forcefully he had no idea Patrick could do that. They held Pete in place, pressed against the bed.

“You,” Pete could feel Patrick’s breath on his aching dick and a chill ran down his spine. “Are mine, only mine, and I’m the only one who can hurt you.” 

To reinforce what he had just said, he shoved a finger inside the older boy’s ass, with no warning nor lube. The pain was sharp; a whimper escaped Pete’s lips, and guilt attacked him because he had just disobeyed Patrick. Luckily, he punished him for it before he could do it himself.

“Hey – what the fuck did I say? You can’t make a sound, slut. That’s what you are, a dirty slut. All naked for me, ready to scream in pleasure whenever I touch you…”

He removed his finger from inside of Pete, and the bassist’s body was free from his weight again. He wasn’t very happy about it.

However, Patrick came back to him soon, and sat on his knees. A foreign object, which felt like leather, hit Pete on the hip, exactly where Patrick had sunk his fingers earlier. He had a spasm as soon as the whip touched him, but he managed to keep his mouth shut this time. This pain was lush, cathartic just like he needed it and –

“This is what you get for disobeying me. Don’t you dare do it again, whore.”

Shit, Pete didn’t know how long he could last with Patrick talking to him like that. It was so fucking obscene. His stomach curled at every word; his cock was demanding attentions by now. 

But Patrick didn’t look like he wanted to give it any, and he got up again, leaving Pete by himself once more.

“Pete, get out of bed and come to me. Follow my voice,” he said, and Pete obeyed right away. He stopped when he felt Patrick’s breath close to him, knowing he was standing just some centimeters away from him. Patrick gripped his chin with a hand and dragged his face forcefully against his own, kissing him roughly, his tongue everywhere in Pete’s mouth. It was so raw Pete had to catch his breath when they parted. Then Patrick’s hand ran along Pete’s jawline up to his temple and all the way up to sink in his hair. Patrick pressed down: Pete took the hint and kneeled, right there in front of him, and now both his hands were on the older boy’s head.

“What a good boy, you figured it out right away…  _my_  Pete…” and he guided Pete’s mouth against his dick, rubbing the tip against his closed lips, and pressing a little to make him part them. As soon as Pete did, he shoved inside of him all the way down, neither letting him enjoy his taste nor adjust himself. The singer started fucking his mouth and the head kept on striking the back of his throat with every hip thrust. Pete thought it could be his new favorite thing: death by chocking on Patrick’s cock was the sweetest death he could think of. Patrick heard him cough, gag, and he probably thought he was overdoing because he pulled out entirely. The bassist wanted to protest, because really, that was hot as fuck and it hurt him but it hurt so good, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak. 

Then, he felt no contact at all. He stayed still while waiting for new instructions.

Patrick made him stand up.

Pete could feel his arms surround his own head; the younger boy removed his t-shirt from Pete’s eyes and the world was colorful again. It took him some time to readjust to the light, and the first thing he saw was Patrick. He was sweaty, with his coppery hair glued to his forehead and sideburns; his dilated pupils gave the impression his eyes were black, while his pink cheeks were there to remind of his youth, his genuineness. The most beautiful thing, though, was his lips: red, wet, swollen and, oh god, Pete would love to bite them till they bled. 

All that ethereal beauty turned into impatient lust when he tightened his arms around Pete’s waist in a tender, yet strong embrace; it was so in contrast with everything they had done that night. It felt so  _sweet_. He then turned the dark-haired boy around, so that he was standing behind him, Pete’s naked back against his front. In front of them there was a wide mirror, which portrayed their jointed figures entirely. Patrick pointed at their reflection.

“I kept it artistic… you like?”

He was referring to the marks he had left on Pete’s body. Pete could see the scratches on his abdomen, but the hickeys spread all over his neck and chest were more obvious, and even more obvious were the bruises on his hips (they were fucking  _purple_ ), one of which had a red whip-shaped spot. Yeah, Patrick did a great job with that. Pete smiled at the mirror because those marks were beautiful.

Patrick noticed. “Well, I’m about to mark you some more… the fun starts now.”

He ordered Pete to get on all fours, face towards the mirror. He positioned behind him. 

“Your ass is a masterpiece… so pretty, so pretty,” Patrick repeated, while he hit him with the whip first on one cheek, then on the other, finding a pace, like he was the drummer and Pete was his drums. It was such an aphrodisiac pain; Patrick observed intently at Pete’s face through the mirror, and smiled mischievously at his blissful expression. He decided it was enough; he stretched an arm and grabbed the vibrator on the edge of the bed, he analyzed it, playing around with it in his hands.

“I would torture you with this too,” he said. “But I need to come. You’ve been so good up to now and my dick demands you… And it doesn’t want to wait anymore. We’ll play with this thing next time.”

Pete swallowed hard.

“Oh, one more thing,” he added. “You can talk now. And you can come, but you mustn’t touch yourself. Okay?” 

“Okay.”

Patrick grasped the lube and spread it on three fingers; he shoved one by one in Pete’s ass, and he jumped at every addition. Patrick curled them, stretching him, and when he found his prostate, Pete gobbled and panted his name.

“Don’t you feel like a filthy, cheap slut? You sure do look like one,” he removed all his fingers at once, and Pete felt tremendously empty. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Patrick… I’m just a whore, your whore, I’m ready to do anything for you… Please, fuck me.”

Patrick laughed. It was a dark, wild laugh. 

“Look at you,” he forced the older boy’s face towards the mirror, “on all fours for me, so desperate, completely subdued to my every wish. So pathetic and hot as fuck…”

Pete really liked those words. Not only they were obscene, they also felt pretty right to him; and since  _Patrick_  was telling him this, since  _Patrick_  was verbally abusing him, Pete didn’t need to do it himself, did he? It was pretty similar to every fucking time he hated himself more than usual and his mind insulted him, talking to him like he was the grossest thing in the world, the most worthless ever. But now it was Patrick doing so, and it was right, because he actually loved Pete and he would never treat him like this outside the bedroom. Maybe this idea could work for real. 

He positioned his cock against Pete’s entrance. 

“And this little hole… it looks like it’s begging me to tear it apart. What’cha say, slave?”

Pete nodded vigorously. “Yes, Patrick… fuck, please, pl –”

He got in. Again, he didn’t wait for Pete to get used to it, and started fucking him senseless and hard. Every thrust was stroking Pete’s prostate, violent and strong; that pain was Pete’s shelter by now.

Patrick moaned, grunted, and Pete could admire his features twisted by pleasure through his reflection. It was pure pornography: eyes closed, mouth open in a quiet ‘o’, face upwards, sweat dripping and polishing his skin, graceless hip thrusts… He was a fucking greek god.

His thrusts got faster, and Pete realized he was so close. He panted Patrick’s name louder and louder, spasms and adrenaline ran through Pete’s whole body, all aiming at his dick, aching and untouched.

Patrick came first, with a scream that faded into weak whimpers. Pete cherished that sound and remembered it for years. Patrick flooded his ass with warm cum; he was full of him up to his guts, and this only thought was enough. Pete’s orgasm was powerful, maybe the most intense he had ever had; he reached the peak of that pleasure enjoying it until the last minute, screaming Patrick’s name like it was the most beautiful word he had ever heard.

When the both of them had partially recovered, they finally moved from their positions. They were still out of breath, Pete’s heart still couldn’t beat normally; but he felt  _good_ , so good. He hadn’t felt like that for years. He breathed in and smiled while stretching out.

They could see the first light of the dawn through the curtains, to crown the end of this night, which had been both one of the worst and one of the best of Pete’s life. They tucked under the blankets, tired as hell, saying nothing until their faces were facing on their pillows.

Patrick was waiting for a response, Pete could understand by the apprehension that altered his beautiful features. He smiled sweetly to reassure him.

“Patrick, you were… amazing. I didn’t know you could… well…”

Patrick laughed, his usual laughter, and barely blushed. The old Patrick was back.

“Well, we would’ve had sex like this at some point in the future anyway.” His laugh went off. “But – about that thing. What do you think? Can you think about it now or do you need more time to figure it out?”

“I felt everything I wanted to feel. I don’t feel the urge to cut anymore for now, so I guess your idea wasn’t that stupid…”

Patrick punched him softly on the arm; Pete laughed and moved aside.

“So? Are we doing it again?”

“Yes, Patrick… I mean, I feel good now, so…”

His smile lighted up the whole room. Pete couldn’t help but smile himself.

“Well… I, for one, had the time of my life.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts and criticism are ALWAYS appreciated!


End file.
